


Scruff

by NothingSoDivine



Series: NSD Writes RvB [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Chorus Trilogy, Comfort, I feel like Comfort by itself is more accurate than Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Wash is an ex-Freelancer so he has a lot of baggage, because it's not really hurt, it's more like old wounds gaping open all the time and making Wash feel nervous and vulnerable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: Wash gets anxious. Somehow, Tucker gets it.Rated M for potentially disturbing imagery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> based on papanorth's [gorgeous and emotionally distressing art thing](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/159506894596/when-wash-is-feeling-anxiousparanoid-which)

In the wake of the accident, Agent Washington tried a lot of things to try and hide the hole in the back of his head.

He tried growing his hair out, but it itched and tickled and besides, he kept forgetting he was growing it and just buzzing it off again. He tried bandaging it, but adhesive bandages pulled his hair and rubbed off in his armor, and wrapping them around his throat felt too much like strangulation. Eventually, he just settled for staying in armor, as much as he could possibly help it. It didn't hurt that he wore it all the time anyways.

* * *

Chorus changed a lot of things.

The first time it happened it was a panic attack triggered by nothing - just, suddenly, there wasn't enough oxygen in the air or not enough air in the room or not enough room to breathe and Wash was gasping, curling in on himself in his chair in the middle of base, naked and cold without climate-controlled kevlar between his shoulderblades and across the back of his neck. A hand landed on his shoulder - dark, warm, grounding, sword callouses, Tucker's voice, something like concern. Wash gasped, something that may have been words. Tucker's voice again, soft and even and then his hand was smoothing across Wash's shoulder and sweeping up slowly to settle over the back of his neck.

Wash made a noise that came out like pain, not moving to swat Tucker away, only to cover his mouth and keep the noise in. Tucker's hand was warmth and so sure, and he fit so well with the way his thumb tucked up in against his mastoid process (an inch to the front and dig a knife in between the bones) and his fingers curled, gentle and sure, around the back of his neck and his palm fit so neatly over the

the hole

Epsilon left

and Wash took a shuddery breath that sounded like a sob and pressed both hands over his mouth and nose to stifle how much it sounded like one on the way back out and Tucker gave his neck just the faintest little squeeze of I'm-here-for-you and let Wash lean back into him until he could breathe again and he could bear to leave Tucker's hand behind and go get the cup of coffee he'd been about to make.

The wound felt colder and more empty without Tucker's hand, but the memory of the touch made it far more bearable.

* * *

Tucker makes it a habit.

Wash isn't sure what it is that tells him, but as he slowly grows more accustomed to forgoing his armor, it grows more and more frequent, almost routine. Something would set in - stress, anxiety, worry, paranoia, god only fucking knows what else - and suddenly the hole in his neck would be gaping, peeling back to reveal his nervous system to the world, one wrong move and he'd be paralyzed -

 - and Tucker's hand would find the back of his neck and hold him together until he stopped feeling at risk of coming apart.

They never talk about it, but Wash has never been good at talking about things, and he gets the feeling Tucker isn't so great either. They never talk about it, but it just quietly keeps happening, often enough that Wash isn't really sure who started it but suddenly their default seats are next to each other, just within arm's reach.

Even just that becomes enough for most days.

* * *

The first time it happens in public is, frankly, a little terrifying.

It's in the meeting room on Chorus, and Kimball and Doyle are arguing. Carolina is butting in, the Reds and Blues are butting in, everyone is butting in but Wash, and he's just sat there with his fingers picking nervously at the pockets of his cargo pants as the tension builds, some patrol went to shit and blame is flying thick and fast and everybody's shouting and Wash can't understand a word except suddenly, jarringly, " _Allison!_ "

Wash collapses like a tent with the poles all shrunk, suddenly gasping for breath, and in the commotion, nobody looks over, nobody notices -

 - except Tucker stops mid-word and sits down, hand finding the back of Wash's neck like a magnetic puzzle piece without more than a glance in his direction, squeezing gently and leaving the fight to burn itself out. Nobody looks over, nobody notices. It's as if Tucker's normally unavoidably noticeable personality is a torch and he's switched off the gas, leaving nothing but the pilot light, invisible. He's made himself invisible.

Wash leans heavily into the touch and thinks to himself that he could fall in love with him for that.

**Author's Note:**

> completely un-beta'd and mostly un-proofed, and I changed some verb tenses last-minute so if there's a typo or a past/present error or anything please let me know.


End file.
